Hey! Decided to try my hand at a Pitch Perfect FanFiction because I absolutely love the movie. It's very AU, which I'm usually not a huge fan of, but I thought it would be fun for this. I already have four more chapters written, so stay tuned for the real story, not just exposition, in a few days. Enjoy!
Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!
My eyes started to flutter.
Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!
A quiet groan escaped my lips.
Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!
"Oh, shut up," I mumbled, thrusting my hand on top of the noisy device sitting on my nightstand. Silence filled my dark room, marred only by the red numbers on the clock reading 7:00 AM. It took some time, but I managed to roll out of bed. My eyes squinted shut the second after I turned on the lamp. I fought through the pain and headed over to my closet, hoping my eyes would adjust to the light soon.
After I exchanged by pajama pants and tank top for a gray shirt layered underneath an open purple, plaid shirt and a pair of torn-up jeans and tied my beat up black Converse around my feet, I entered the bathroom attached to my room and brushed my mid-length brown hair before I broke out the makeup. After heavily lining my eyes with black eyeliner, sweeping my eyelids with dark gray eye shadow, and darkening my long lashes with black mascara, I moved on to my jewelry, stacked up by the side of my sink. I began with my black, swirl, gauge earrings, then moved on to my other ear piercings. Once my ears were taken care of, I put some twisted black jelly bracelets around both of my wrists, hooked a choker necklace with a small star pendant around my neck, and slid a few silver rings onto my fingers. I looked at myself in the mirror when I was finished, satisfied. No matter what anyone said, I liked my look, and I thought it really suited me.
Once I was dressed, I went downstairs as quickly as possible, trying to get out of the house before my family woke up. I grabbed a banana on my way out the door to the garage. I finished it in five bites as I climbed into my ancient maroon Ford Probe and began my half hour daily drive from Sandy Springs, Georgia to Atlanta. After finding my assigned spot in my school's parking lot, I got out of my car with my backpack and headed into the large, elaborate building that was Barden Academy.
Barden Academy was widely regarded as one of the most rigorous schools in Atlanta. I never wanted to go to high school there. I wanted to go to Riverwood High School, the public school fifteen minutes from my house instead of half an hour. I wanted to go to a high school that didn't give a shit about what I looked like. I wanted to go to a high school that didn't care if I passed or failed or got into college or dropped out entirely. Instead, my dad forced me into Barden, so I could get a "real" education and get into a "real" college and have a "real" career, never once listening to what I want.
As I walked through the building towards my first class, English, I got the same stares that I got every morning. Almost every single aspect about my appearance went against the school dress code, something I actually enjoyed, but it certainly set me apart from every other girl in school, with their neck-high dresses, calf-length skirts, pearl post earrings, and makeup so subtle, they might as well not wear any. Much the administration's dismay, I never changed my ways, no matter how many demerits they gave me.
As usual, due to my lengthy morning commute, I walked into English class five minutes late. My teacher, Mrs. Kirk, had already started class and glared at me when I walked in.
"Beca. I see you've decided to grace us with your presence this morning," she said stiffly. "Need I remind you that denim clothing is prohibited during the academic day?"
"No, ma'am. I've got that pretty deep in my brain," I said with a sugary smile as I took my seat. Mrs. Kirk rolled her eyes and continued the lesson. While she babbled on about the Shakespeare assignment, I snuck my earbuds out of my backpack, placed each bulb in my ear, plugged them into my phone, and spent the rest of class listening to music.
After English, I had to switch languages for Chinese class. Studying Chinese was my dad's idea. I wanted to take Spanish to fulfill my foreign language requirement because I thought it would be easier and more useful. But Daddy Dearest insisted that learning Chinese would be better for when the Chinese take over the world or whatever.
After Chinese, I had biology, followed by lunch. I went to the dining hall and went through the line to get my greasy spaghetti and sat down at what I had declared to be my table, the one right next to the big window in the corner. I brought my big headphones out of my bag, which I much preferred to earbuds, and plugged them into my phone so I could listen to more music while I ate by myself.
I've never been the type of girl who has a lot of friends. It's gone back from elementary school. I just never seemed to click with the other kids at first. When I got to middle school, I guess I just decided to stop trying. I was doing just fine on my own. People are messy and complicate things, and I didn't need or want any more messy. Though I'll be the first to admit that the limited socialization I had growing up along with my broken family was the reason why I was so jaded.
After lunch, I reluctantly took off my headphones and went to my US history class, followed by calculus. My final class of the day was the only one that I truly enjoyed, Electronic Music. My life revolved around music. Whenever I was upset, even when I was a kid, music always made me feel better. When I got to middle school, I started to realize that I could do more than listen to music; I could make music. I found all kinds of computer programs to use and started making what I like to call mash-ups: two or more different songs meshed together to create one, unique track. My mash-ups had gotten more sophisticated as I got through middle and high school, to the point where I had discovered that music was my calling. It had been my dream since eighth grade to move out to Los Angeles after high school, get a go-nowhere job at a record label, start paying my dues, and eventually become a music producer. But according to my father, a music producer is not a "real" job. I had to waste four years of my life in college before I could go out and start doing what I really wanted to do. It made me so angry that he thought he had the right to tell me what I could and couldn't do. Being the second piece of the puzzle of creating me did not automatically make him my dad.
After school got out, I went out to the parking lot as quickly as I could before some dumbass administrator could see how I was dressed and call me into their office for the millionth time. Instead of going back to Sandy Springs, I drove from school to the Steak 'n Shake I worked at in Atlanta. I parked my car and headed inside to change into my uniform before I started my shift. I had been working at Steak 'n Shake for three years, trying to save money to buy new pieces of equipment and to move out to LA on my own once I graduated. Even after three years of work, all I had managed to get was a new keyboard and microphone, and three hundred and fifty dollars. It was certainly a start, but that wouldn't cover a month's rent in Los Angeles. I certainly had a long way to go.
After I got off work, I drove back to Sandy Springs and parked my car in the garage of my dad's house before I went inside where Sheila, my stepmother, and my two half-sisters, Molly and Madison, were sitting at the kitchen table drinking Juicy-Juice and eating apple slices. At eight years old, my identical twin half-sisters were in third grade, and they were already the biggest divas on earth. Dad and Sheila treated them as if they were real princesses, giving them anything they ever wanted. They hated me and I hated them; it was the perfect relationship.
I walked through the kitchen quickly, passing my stepmother and half-sisters without any of them saying a single word to me. It was as if I hadn't even walked in. This was so typical, it almost didn't bother me anymore. I knew they didn't love me, that I was only there because a judge said I had to be there. I couldn't wait until I turned eighteen in November, so I could legally move out on my own and start living my life.
I went up the stairs and into my bedroom, closing the door behind me. I hastily did my homework, then I sat down at my desk and continued working on the new track I had started the night before. I got so lost in the music, I didn't even realize that I had been sitting at my computer for over an hour until my growling stomach reminded me that it was six o'clock: dinner time. I saved my work and headed downstairs to the kitchen where Molly, Madison, and my dad were seated at the table while Sheila was putting salad on everyone's plates.
"Hey, Bec," Dad greeted me with a smile as I approached the table. I didn't respond; instead, I stared at the table, seeing only four plates, not five. Dad seemed to notice, too, and looked up at his second wife.
"Sheila, where's Beca's plate?" he asked.
"Well, you never know if she's going to show up or not," Sheila said defensively. "I didn't want to get a plate out if she wasn't going to come."
"Whatever," I muttered as I grabbed my own plate and silverware and set it on the table in the seat next to my dad.
"Madison, would you like to say grace?" Dad asked his new daughter sweetly once everyone had been served some pasta.
"Okay, Daddy," Madison said with a syrupy smile. I rolled my eyes and kept my hands unfolded and my eyes open while they all bowed their heads and clasped their hands. "Bless us, oh Lord, for these thy gifts which we are about to receive. From thy bounty through Christ, our Lord. Amen."
"Amen," Dad, Sheila, and Molly said as the made the sign of the cross. I had been raised Catholic, but I denounced my religion and became an atheist several years before. It's just hard to be anything else when it feels like you don't have anyone in your life who really, truly cares about you.
"So Beca, how was your day?" Dad asked me. I was a little surprised, as he didn't always acknowledge me during dinner. I was sure he was fishing for information.
"Fine," I replied.
"School was good?"
"Fine."
"Homework going well?"
"Fine."
"And college applications?"
"Just stellar," I said sarcastically with a sweet smile.
"Where are you applying?" Dad asked.
"I was thinking about applying to I Don't Give a Shit University," I said with heavy snark.
"Rebeca, for the millionth time, don't that kind of language around my children!" Sheila exclaimed.
"Sheila, for the millionth time, don't call me Rebeca," I said, my voice low and dark.
"I'm completely serious, Beca. Where are you going to apply?" Dad said, his voice firm.
"I was completely serious, too, Dad. I honestly don't give a shit," I told him. "I'll apply to whatever college you want. That doesn't mean I'll get it, and it certainly doesn't mean that I'll go."
"Are you worried about getting into college?" Dad asked.
"I think I would have to want to go to college to be worried about getting into college."
"Do you think your grades will allow you to be accepted to a legitimate college?" Dad rephrased with a sigh.
"Oh! Why didn't you say that?" I said sardonically. "I think my grades are a little below Harvard's standards."
"Beca, 'legitimate college' is not synonymous to 'Harvard,'" Dad said. "I'm not saying you need to go to Harvard. I'm not even saying you need to go to Emory. I'm just saying that you need to go to a respectable, four-year institution of higher education. You need to start researching schools and getting your applications in, or we're going to have problems. Do I make myself clear?"
"Oh, just like crystal," I said. Dad sighed, then gave up on me and moved on to his new daughters, asking them what they learned in school and being the dad I always wished he had been to me.
After I finished my dinner, I rinsed my plate and put it in the dishwasher before I went back to my room and continued working on my computer with the lights out. At nine, someone knocked on my door. I was shocked; no one ever came to talk to me.
"What?" I said. The door opened, letting light spill into the room. I swiveled around in my rolling chair and saw Sheila standing in the doorway.
"Good God, why is it so dark in here?" she said snottily.
"What do you want, Sheila?" I asked as I turned back to my computer, uninterested in her.
"Turn that noise down. The girls are trying to sleep," Sheila said.
"That 'noise' is called music. I know you're not familiar with anything somewhat fun or pleasant, but—"
"I am so sick of your attitude," Sheila said harshly. "Turn that noise off so my daughters can sleep." She slammed the door shut, engulfing the room in darkness again.
"Yes, ma'am," I muttered as I grabbed my headphones and plugged them into my computer before I went back to work.
I continued to work on my mash-ups until I looked at the clock in the corner of my screen and realized that it was two in the morning. Knowing I had to be up in four hours, I took a quick shower, changed into my pajama pants and tank top, then climbed into bed and fell asleep.